


Caught Off Guard

by AetherSeer



Series: Trio 'verse [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gen, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15603858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: Jakub can’t figure out if he wants to fuck, to eat, or to just sleep.





	Caught Off Guard

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a larger 'verse project with Catznetsov, with whom it has been a delight to plot.

Chicago is … a disaster. Jakub’s scratched, sitting in the box, watching as his team is absolutely _trounced_ by the Blackhawks. The ‘Hawks, despite a string of losses earlier in the week, are making the Caps look slow and uncoordinated, undressing the defense like … Jakub doesn’t know the right words in English.

And he’s stuck where he can’t help his team, either. Instead, he’s trying to breathe shallowly through his mouth, avoiding the suffocating press of too much scent. Someone must be wearing far too much cologne or something, because Jakub can barely breathe right now.

Intermission is a relief, an excuse to duck out and find a corner clear of people. He makes his way down to the locker rooms, and immediately regrets it. If the box was bad, the locker room’s even worse. He can _scent_ his teammates even more than the usual low-level awareness, and he’s not prepared for the jolt of arousal. Jakub stumbles back out, dodging staff and trainers, and makes a beeline for the clearest part of the hallway he can find.

He needs a breather. And space. And to not have a boner in the locker room. And …  _fuck._ That’s … that’s new.

 

Jakub doesn’t know how long he sits out in the hallway before he hears the roar of the crowd in the United Center. He staggers to his feet, overwhelmed and dizzy, and almost gets to the visitors’ locker room before a trainer finds him.

Jason takes one look at Jakub and pointedly takes a whiff. And promptly sneezes. “Yeah, you’re not going back up to the box,” he says. “We’ll sit you in the room, and you can watch on our screens.”

That’s fair. Jakub’s pretty sure that he’s dropping into pre-heat, or maybe even actual heat. He squirms, skin prickling against the fabric of his clothes. He’s hot, and uncomfortable, and …

The trainers’ room is slightly cooler, but Jakub shucks his suit jacket immediately. It’s a minor relief, as is the chilled Gatorade Cleo hands him. He hears the dull roar of the crowd and manages to focus on the TV screen enough to see the goal replay. It’s Kane, _of course it’s Kane,_ and Jakub tunes out again through the commentary.

T.J. gets stripped of the puck by one of the 'Hawks' defensemen just as Jakub gets hit by a wave of arousal so strong he gets dizzy _sitting down._ And of course Chicago buries that one behind Holts, too. Jakub teeters in his seat, weighing his options before deciding that he’s better off not moving for right now.

The room smells sterile, as do most trainers’ rooms, but beneath the bleach and lemon cleaners there’s the soaked-in sweat and iron tang of blood, and Jakub’s never noticed before. He groans. If this is heat, it fucking sucks.

 

The second period ends, and the ‘Hawks are up 6-1. Jakub’s resorted to burying his face in the generic detergent-smelling pillow in an effort to tone down the scents pressing in all around him. It only sort of works, and it gets worse when the door to the locker room swings open for Kuzy to stick his head in.

“V, you okay, yeah?” Kuzy’s scent is normally fairly mild, but Jakub’s nose is going overboard and it’s too much. And his other teammates’ scents are wafting in, too, an overpowering mix of sweat and musk and spice and just a hint of sweet. It’s not a good combination right now, and Jakub rolls over to retch into a conveniently placed bin. (Thanks, Cleo.)

Kuzy hovers at the end of the massage table, looming over Jakub while half-undressed. Jakub’s eyes water. “Too much, Kuzma,” he chokes out.

Kuzy backs up, hands up in deference. “Easier when at hotel, yes? Only third period left, okay?”

Jakub can’t describe the sound he makes then as anything but a whimper. One more period. Twenty minutes. Kuzy backs out of the room and Jakub inhales. And regrets it immediately when his stomach rebels _again._

He can’t do this for all of intermission.

 

Jakub escapes out to the hall again, hugging the pillow to his chest. The locker rooms are mostly contained; not much in the way of scent gets past the doors. And the noise level’s dropped considerably. Jakub hadn’t noticed the growing headache before.

He takes deep breaths, willing the unwanted arousal still simmering—and how is it even still there given the complete rebellion his nose and stomach are staging—to go away. He gets a whiff of spice and _warmth_ instead, a completely new scent, and sniffs the air again cautiously. What _is_ that?

Jakub trails the scent through the maze of hallways that is the United Center, ducking around corners and dodging the occasional staff person. The scent gets stronger as he goes, so he must be getting closer to …  _whatever_ it is. It smells like warmth and _home,_ and maybe that’s a weird combination, but it smells so much better than the overpowering mess of the Caps’ locker room.

Jakub turns a corner, nearly _tasting_ the spice on his tongue now, and stops. The hallway’s a dead end, and only populated by a single person. There’s nothing else that looks remotely like it could be producing that scent, which means that Jakub’s been panting after a _person._ An alpha, if he has to guess. And given the man’s … appearance … he’s probably a ‘Hawks player. _Fuck._

The guy startles and turns around. Jakub leans against a convenient wall and holds the pillow up to his nose. The detergent scent is fading, and the alpha’s scent is getting stronger. And … oh.

Jakub swallows. The alpha stops about a foot away from where Jakub’s depending on the wall to hold him up right now. Jakub hugs his pillow tight, but he can’t help inhaling to get more of the alpha’s scent. His knees buckle, and he slides down the wall, landing on the concrete with a thump.

The alpha crouches down in front of Jakub. His face creases into a worried frown. “Hey, you okay?” he asks. Jakub just tries to keep breathing, shivering as his arousal grows. He wants—he doesn’t know what he wants, but he _wants_ —

“You don’t look good. I’m getting you back to your team,” the alpha says. Jakub blinks. That was in _Czech._ The alpha’s Czech? Jakub doesn’t know … the alpha gets a hand beneath Jakub’s elbow and pulls Jakub to his feet. Jakub tips forward, overbalancing, and his head lands against the alpha’s collarbone. Very close to the alpha’s neck, and … the spice-warm-home scent is so much nicer right at the source. Jakub hums happily and tries to wiggle closer.

The alpha sucks in a breath and gently pushes Jakub away. Jakub whines in protest. The alpha coughs, and slips his shoulder beneath Jakub’s arm. He’s warm, pressed all along Jakub’s side. Jakub doesn’t even mind, much, when the alpha insists on moving them.

He does mind, however, when the alpha removes himself and stands further away from Jakub than before as he pounds on the visitors’ locker room door. Jakub’s calculating the best way to get back into the alpha’s personal space when Ovi opens the door.

Ovi’s half-dressed, his hair standing straight up on one side like he’s been running his hands through it. “V! Don’t scare Kuzma like that, run off in heat!”

The alpha gently guides Jakub forward, tipping him into Ovi’s half-embrace. Ovi tucks Jakub against his side. “I find him near our locker room,” the alpha says. “I think you been looking for him?”

Ovi’s arm tightens around Jakub when Jakub sways forward. He can’t help inhaling again. Ovi’s sweat-clean-omega scent is cloying right now; Jakub wants that spice-warm-home _back._ But Ovi’s grip is like iron, and Jakub’s not going anywhere.

“Thank you for returning,” Ovi says, tone clipped. Jakub winces. That’s—he knows the game is going terribly, and … Jakub’s stomach rebels again and he yanks out of Ovi’s grasp to find the nearest trash can and double over it. He can hear the rumble of his captain’s voice and the low murmur of the alpha’s, but he’s too busy puking his guts up to listen.

The locker room door swings shut, and Jakub arches weakly into the warmth of Ovi’s enormous hands as they smooth down his back. “Easy, V. First heat is rough, I know.”

 

The bus ride to the hotel is uncomfortable, the team stewing over a demoralizing loss. Jakub stole a second pillow from the trainers’ room, and keeps his face alternatively pressed against the fabric or buried in the crook of Kuzy’s neck. Kuzy’s scent is sharp and cool, a balm to Jakub’s overworked nose.

Someone called ahead and reassigned Jakub to one of the heat rooms, which means no roommate tonight. It doesn’t stop his teammates from protectively escorting him to said heat room. Jakub might be more mad, but Kuzy’s half-carrying him at this point.

Jakub can’t figure out if he wants to fuck, to eat, or to just sleep.

“That’s pretty normal,” Beags says with a half-smothered smile. Well, apparently Jakub said that part out loud. Great.

Beags actually kicks all the alphas and betas back to the team’s floor once they reach the heat room, leaving only himself, Grubi, and Ovi with Jakub. Jakub flops facefirst onto the bed, kicking off his shoes. He rolls over to his back and stares at the ceiling. “Why didn’t any of you tell me heat sucks?”

“Is different for everyone,” Ovi offers. “My heat, I just want to be fucked. And sleep. Lots of sleeping.”

Jakub props himself up on his elbows. Ovi’s sprawled in the chair, Beags and Grubi leaning against the wall. Grubi just shakes his head. “And mine’s not like that at all. I can’t sleep. Jitters all the time.”

Beags wrinkles his nose. “Cramps,” he says. “The two days before heat hits is all cramps and sensitivity. I can’t wear a shirt half the time.”

Jakub thunks his head back against the mattress. His hips shift. “So this is gonna suck. By myself.”

Beags drops a black toiletries bag on the bed by Jakub’s hip. “It doesn’t have to,” the older omega says. “But you have to figure out what works for you on your own.”

Jakub opens the bag—and recoils. “What is—?!”

Beags rolls his eyes. “It’s all new. Still in the packaging.” He rolls his shoulders and looks to Ovi. Ovi pops to his feet. “You have our numbers if you need any … advice.”

 

Jakub doesn’t end up calling any of them. But it’s nice to know he’s not alone. And it doesn’t hurt that he manages to contribute an assist in the game against Buffalo two nights later, either, despite lingering traces of heat.

He’s not expecting to run into the alpha from Chicago in Kettler, though, when the team returns home to face Tampa. He’s especially not prepared for the alpha to introduce himself as the new trade, or for Ovi to corner him in the locker room after practice.

“O? What’s going on?”

“You know he Czech, yes?” Ovi’s nothing but sincere, huge and imposing, and still impossibly soft-looking in a hoodie a size too big for even him.

And yes, Jakub had noticed Kempný is Czech. And he’d taken more than one less-than-subtle whiff of the man’s scent, too, in the process. “Kinda hard to miss,” Jakub says. “I usually can tell what language I’m speaking, even in heat.”

“You like his scent, too, yes?” Okay, now this is getting weird. And when Jakub says as much, Ovi just shrugs. “We need D-men. GM knows we need D-men. I see him in Chicago, he treats you good, he’s Czech. I told MacLellan.”

Jakub gets a sinking feeling in his gut. “You asked the GM to trade for a Czech alpha. Ovi …”

He gets two hands on his shoulders, drawing him in close. Jakub doesn’t protest much; he’s aware his captain is handsy. Ovi’s voice is quiet. “If you don’t want him, just say. But maybe worth trying. And a little bit of home is good for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> There is a mention of Patrick Kane, in reference to who made it onto the scoresheet that game. He makes no further appearances.
> 
> As always, please let me know if there are any mistakes or typos, and I'll correct them.


End file.
